There is something a bit spoilsport-ish about reflecting on sport in an art gallery. Enjoyment of sport, even as a spectator, requires a passionate and often partisan involvement. In contrast, the prevailing stance of the contemporary artist remains one of detachment. It goes without saying that there is nothing in the Cornerhouse's Spectator Sport exhibition that comes anywhere near the absurdist drama, aesthetic grace and spellbinding technical skills to be experienced during a good football game.
Some artists here approach this culture-shock displacement with a typically ironic smirk. Julie Henry digitally manipulates a video of an undeniably naff 1970s World Skittles Federation match, during which the commentator gets momentarily heated about a player "nearly getting two successive floppers". Tracey Moffatt offers photo-images of athletes finishing fourth at the 2000 Sydney Olympics, printed on to canvas so that the tragedy of their loss assumes an iconic grandeur.
Perhaps the one thing that art and sport have in common is a tendency towards ritualised patterns of behaviour. So the most engaging works here are those that recognise the almost masochistic levels of collective dedication required to satisfy the tribal loyalties of sport. Roderick Buchanan presents a video collage, titled Harriers, in which athletes are filmed in close-up, steaming and dripping with sweat after a race. It is a simple piece that at least hints at the perverse heroism of contestants. Such an extreme regime of bodily self-punishment surely has more to do with Theatre of Cruelty than it has with any kind of health-promoting exercise.
Mark Lewis ritually choreographs his camera itself as it moves in and out of the tenement yards and alleys of a housing estate and captures kids engrossed in kick-about games. But the strongest work here is the rowdiest. Ravi Deepres's triptych video concentrates on a football crowd's heraldic dress codes and war paint, and its apparently hysterical yet highly co-ordinated gestures and chants. The action is slowed down and the sound slurred to evoke the sacramental uplift of a goal that appears to come out of nowhere. Watching it is almost as good as experiencing the real thing. But only almost.
Until June 23. Details: 0161-200 1500.
